


I Like That Idea

by synonymsforchocolate



Series: Season Three Bughead Episode Tags [1]
Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: 3x02 tag, Episode Tag, F/M, Intimacy, investigation kink, midnight snack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-04 03:18:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16338818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/synonymsforchocolate/pseuds/synonymsforchocolate
Summary: EPISODE 3x02 tagAnother self-indulgent bughead episode tag: now with light smut! I promise in the forthcoming ones I'll find more to do with these two than plan their investigation and make out. Also feat. Jughead's obsession with Betty'd serpent tattoo.





	I Like That Idea

There was very little that surprised Jughead Jones anymore.

 

First it had been Jason Blossom. Then Hiram Lodge and his Southside seek-and-destroy mission. The Black Hood. That black wig. Most recently, this Gargoyle King business. He had become conditioned to eschew the shock and instead dive into an investigation. It was his coping mechanism. It was _their_ coping mechanism, really.

 

But even Jughead could admit that today had pushed his limits. The reveal of his girlfriend’s apparent seizure had definitely given him pause, but ultimately his concern for Betty had overshadowed any other emotion. He could still see her face in that moment, could read her expression clear as day: anger at Alice, embarrassment, a plea to him not to take it personally. He understood. He didn’t like it that she worried about him, either.

 

Of course, he did worry over her. Jughead was almost certain that concern for Betty was his flagship emotion now. He had wanted nothing more than to follow her up those stairs and do the things he knew comforted her — cupping her jaw, like he’d done that day they’d talked about inheriting evil, stroking her ponytail, and holding her in that desperate way she’d come to love that simply said _I’m here_. He and Betty had their own language now, made of deep exhales and those adorable little sniffles of hers and eye contact that could communicate whole novels. _For two writers, we say an awful lot without talking,_ thought Jughead. He wanted to tell her that it was okay, that she shouldn’t feel ashamed. He wanted to _listen._ But Alice had damn near clotheslined him trying to get up the stairs, and he knew they could talk about it later. Still, he worried for his Hitchcock blonde, always having to be tougher than was fair.

 

And then, as per usual in Riverdale, the events of the day had taken over, leaving their own personal lives and mental health to play second fiddle to the drama and terror that seemed to own the town. The appearance of the great Gargoyle King, ghastly in feathers and bloody bone. The bunker and its amalgamation of satanic stuff, the dusty beams of their flashlights exposing every creepy truth that died with Dilton. The stowaway scout. Ethel’s interrogation and subsequent seizure. And finally, Ben.

 

“He just…fell backwards,” whispered Betty as they stood clutching each other in Ben’s hospital room. By now there were police everyone, and he imagined he’d see paramedics swarming around Ben’s body under a white sheet if he looked out the hospital window. “It was like he was possessed, Jug. Like he didn't know what he was saying."

 

“The creators of Griffins and Gargoyles better lawyer up” _,_ muttered Jughead, “because they’re walking a fine copyright line with ‘you’ll fly too’.” Betty simply buried her face deeper into his chest, and he scrunched his fist in her shirt.

 

“I want to go home,” she said, still talking in a low voice. “No more investigating for tonight.”

 

Jughead had nodded silently. He’d take her home; they’d seen enough.

 

They were both required to give statements to Sheriff Minetta about what they’d seen, and thankfully the process went quickly. Riverdale General, in a rare display of competence, had cameras in all its room, and Ben’s death was quickly ruled a suicide, though the murder investigation was still ongoing.

 

Now, as they approach her front door, Betty tugs his hand. She’s been clinging to him for the better part of the last two hours, but truthfully Jughead doesn’t mind, not one bit. He needs her touch, too. None of what was happening felt real, it felt…otherworldly. Unfathomable. Dark. But Betty, she always felt real to him. And that was what they had to hold onto in all this mess — each other.

 

“Want to come up?” Betty asks, squeezing his hand in a way that he knows means _I don’t know if I’ll sleep if you don’t._

 

Jughead smiles at her. “Don’t get me wrong, Betts — I’d go anywhere with you. But what am I walking into here? Last time I came over, we got ambushed by _both_ our parents. And there’s still your mom’s friends from the Farm. What if they’re around?”

 

“My mom’s at the Register. Polly might be home, but she won’t bug us. Plus, I think she mentioned she was going to the Farm’s version of Mommy and Me classes tonight.” She scrunched her fact in distaste.

 

“Okay,” he said softly, stepping back so she could unlock the door and let them in.

 

Betty’s room, once his own sort of White Whale, was warm and comforting — albeit very pink. Ultimately, it reminded him of her, so it wasn’t terrible. By now Jughead had been here enough times to see the hallmarks of her distress: too much laundry in the hamper; the books on the desk out of order; a few stray socks on the floor; cold tea on the nightstand from the night before.

 

“Do you know how grateful I am that you were with me through all this?” Jughead asks as they cross towards her bed. “I missed that, last year.”

 

“Me too, Jug,” Betty said sweetly.

 

He flopped back on her bed dramatically. “What a day.”

 

“I know,” she said, looking almost amused. “It’s a little laughable. What the hell else could happen in Riverdale?” For a second they both smirked, and then the true tone of everything that had happened hit them, and they fell silent.

 

“I want to forget,” she whispered. “Please. Make me forget what we saw today. I don’t want to think about it for a while.”

 

Jughead never took his eyes off hers. “I can do that,” he whispered, and then he was crashing his lips into hers — they always seemed to act of their accord around her — and they were breathing each other in, losing themselves.

 

Jughead picked her up, hands linking just underneath her backside, and spun her as they kissed. He through her down on her bed and she yelped in delight. She lay there, panting a little, before sitting up and peeling off her shirt. He took a half step back.

 

“What?” she breathed.

 

“Nothing,” he shook his head. “You’re just beautiful.” And she was — not in the way everyone else saw her, as this porcelain, untouched thing, but as _Betty,_ who he loved just as much disheveled and a little wrecked -- maybe more, because he was the only one that saw her undone in this way.

 

By now they were practiced at it. Jughead didn’t fumbled with the front-facing clasp of her bra, nor her the button of his jeans. He knew precisely how far off the bed she needed to be for him to spread open her thighs and hook one finger through her underwear to achieve the best angle. He knew which sounds meant _yes, Jug, God yes,_ and which meant _give me more._ He knew what to do with his tongue. 

 

She things things, too. She knew how his how his fingers felt inside her, knew how to move her hips so they hit exactly the right spot. She knew how to tease him, how to swirl her tongue around the head of his cock so that he knocked his beanie off on his own. She knew the exact spot behind his ear to kiss him to make goosebumps rise across his chest, knew how to smooth them down with her touch. 

 

Sex with Betty always reminded Jughead of being really drunk or really young — only later could he go back and piece together the order in which things occurred. He loved everything about it. He loved the sounds she made when he pushed into her. He loved how he could feel her stomach muscles twitching against his abdomen. He loved the pull of her fingers in his hair and her lips mouthing unspoken words. He loved when they came together, because he never wanted to do anything without her again.

 

Most of all he loved how, in the world of their sex life, all the surprises were good.

 

 

***

 

There’s nothing Betty likes more than the feeling of Jughead’s bare chest against her cheek. Not even the sex — though it had been wonderful, as it always was. Their intimacy carried a certain weight that she refused to believe was simply teenage hormones, because if everyone felt like _this…_ well, the world would be a different place.

 

They had been in this post-orgasm haze for about twenty minutes now. Betty didn’t _think_ her boyfriend was asleep, but he was definitely in a bit of a daze. She couldn’t begrudge him that; they’d had a particularly long day. When she felt Jughead stir and tighten his grip around her, she bit her lip.

 

In one motion he rolled them over, further tangling them in a cocoon of her sheets. They were both still naked from their romp, and Betty let out a stream of air as Jughead began to kiss underneath her left breast, just above her ribcage. She giggled.

 

“Jug, it’s just a tattoo,” she said. When she’d asked for her Serpent branding to be in that spot, she hadn’t imagined her boyfriend would have such a fixation on it. In fact, he now spent a significantly increased amount of their alone time paying attention to it, nuzzling his nose against the underside of her boob and kissing it softly, over and over. It was bordering on an obsession.

 

“I can’t help it,” Jughead whined. “It’s like, a primal thing.”

 

“What we just did was a pretty primal thing,” she replied knowingly.

 

He popped his head up. “My favorite part is still up here, though,” he said, planting a sweet kiss on her forehead. “You’re so smart, baby.”

 

She sighed. Sometimes she caught him looking at her with such a _pride_ in his eyes, like he was drinking in the fact they she was there beside him in all this. She had seen it briefly in his eyes when they were talking to Ethel and earlier, when she’d insisted on accompanying him on the Serpent mission to save Hot Dog. That fleeting look that said _my girl kicks ass, just watch._ It made her heart swell, honestly. She leaned forward and kissed him.

 

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the seizure when it happened," she whispered when they broke apart. “I know I should have. I was going to, honestly, but—“

 

“Don’t worry about, Betty. You would have told me eventually.”

 

“I _do_ worry about it, Jug. What if the seizures are somehow part of all this? What if _I’m_ somehow part of this — _again,_ as if last year wasn’t enough! What if I’m dangerous? What if I get you hurt?”

 

“You’re not dangerous, Betts,” he said softly.

 

She shook her head. “You don’t know that, Jug. I could be. I could be part of this.”

 

“So what, Betty? I said the same thing last year, at the Wyrm — what if I’m dangerous, what if Betty gets hurt. We’re no better apart than we are together. In fact, we’re a lot worse."

 

“Why am I always part of this?” Betty whispered into the still air. “Why am I always at the epicenter?”

 

Jughead wrapped his arms around her and rolled them onto their side, tucking his chin into the crook of her shoulder. “Center of my world for sure, baby.”

 

They stayed like that, drinking each other in, for a long while. Then Jughead’s stomach rumbled softly.

 

Betty laughed. “There’s stuff for sandwiches in the fridge, I think. Want me to go?”

 

But Jughead was already hauling himself up. “Nah, I’ll do it. If anyone’s the expect on fine cuisine in this relationship, it’s me.” He kissed her smile. “Turkey and cheese, right?”

 

“And lettuce, please.” She watched as he tugged sweatpants on —they’d taken to keeping backups at each other’s houses for practicality — and winked at her as her slipped through the door.

 

He was gone a few minutes, and Betty took the time to add the day’s event to her journal, logbook-style. _Screw Edgar Evernever and his righteous indictment of my diaries,_ she thought. _Just cause him name’s fun to say doesn't make him right._

 

She could hear Jughead bounding up the stairs, sandwiches in hand, and she closed her diary. He sat down across from her on the bed, handing her half of their late-night snack.

 

“So, I just had a strange encounter in your living room.”

 

She felt her eyebrows furrow. “With who? Is my mom home?”

 

“No, some girl named Evelyn. Evelyn Evernever?Far be it from me to judge a given name, but—“ Betty pressed a finger to his wrist, and he rerouted. “She was on her way out; I guess your mom said she could drop by and borrow something. I don’t know, it looked like she was snooping to me. There was something really…I don’t know, _off_ about her. I felt the same thing when I met your bro—Chic for the first time. Like there was an ulterior motive she was hiding. She basically started me down until I ran back upstairs.”

 

“That’s the girl who snuck up on my in the Blue & Gold, Juggie,” Betty said. “She was here when I had my seizure, and she was in the student lounge when Ethel collapsed. She’s with the Farm.”

 

“Christ,” Jughead said, tugging off his beanie and running a hand through his hand. “Could the Farm have something to do with this?”

 

“I don’t know, but I would be surprised. They’re definitely sketchy enough.”

 

“What do you want to do now?”

 

 _Ah, the million-dollar question,_ she thought. “What we always do, I guess. Investigate.” She sat up. “What do we know? What do we need to check back on?”

 

“Hmm,” he mused. “Ethel, for sure. She either knows something, or she leads to something.”

 

“Evelyn, too — I bet she’d be more than happy to tell us about the Farm,” Betty added, rolling her eyes. “And the FreshAid, the sugary drink Dr. Curdle mentioned that gave them the blue lips.”

 

“You’re right,” he said, enthused. “If it’s part of the ritual, it’s got to be a clue. We can track down the makers, maybe find out about the history.”

 

“Are you scared, Jug?” Betty asked.

 

He shrugged. “A little, I guess. Not so much when I have you.”

 

“Yeah?” Betty would never get over the sheer belief Jughead had in her — it made her believe in herself, too.

 

“Yeah, Betts. I may not have the power to do something myself, but I will always do it with you,” he said.

 

Betty felt her smile bloom on her face, his own personal flower. Someday, she was sure, things would settle down, and then their conversations would be about SAT prep and Archie’s latest song and who was going to buy the condoms this time. They were doing this backwards, she knew — talking about love and serial killers as easily as her classmates talked about celebrity scandals and video games. But these kind of moments made her feel as normal, as perfectly imperfect, as she’d ever been. He made her feel like she could wear her darkness on the outside and at the same time help keep his inner demons at bay.

 

She leaned over. “I can think of other things you can do with me, too,” she said, smirking.

 

“Oh yeah?” He countered, eyebrows rising.

 

“C’mere,” she said lightly, tapping his bicep in anticipation. When he snatched her up and moaned his love into her mouth, Betty smiled, entirely forgetting the weight on their shoulders or the horrors of the day. _Blue lips of an entirely different kind,_ she thought. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
